


Red

by EllaStorm



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Blindfolds, Dom!Q, Emotional Baggage, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: Bond likes being put in a spot, especially if Q is the one doing the putting. And the chair-tying. And the whipping. Bad memories get in the way regardless. But this time, unlike all the times before, Bond is done running away.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandraMorningstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandraMorningstar/gifts).



> This story is a Christmas gift to my lovely friend @SandraMorningstar. Her prompt for it was, roughly speaking: "Angsty BDSM with Dom!Q. Bond uses his safeword. MAKE THEM SUFFER."  
> How could I say no to that?  
> I hope this comes somewhat close to what you wanted it to be, dear Sandra, and I wish you a Very Merry Christmas. All my love :*

The fur was cool and smooth against his skin, drifting from his sternum up along his clavicle, over his shoulder then down again, in a way that made the hairs at the back of his neck prickle with rising anticipation.

It was most likely mink, he thought, which was the only material he could imagine fit to produce such a luxurious feeling. But what colour? Black, maybe? Dark brown? Grey? Q hadn’t let him take a look at it, insistent that it was a surprise, and his blindfolding technique never left anything to be desired, so Bond remained, quite literally, in the dark about it.

It was a vulnerable position he had let himself be put in, vulnerable enough that it made the part of him that was a double-O-agent above all else deeply uncomfortable: Naked, tied to a kitchen chair, no eyesight to rely on, a dangerous presence circling him with every intention of inflicting pain on him sooner or later – to say that this situation put a strain on his nerves would be an understatement.

And yet, for some paradox reason, that was exactly what got him off.

When he’d first told Q about this side of him, his partner had only shaken his head and muttered something along the lines of “adrenaline junkie” and “should have bloody known” under his breath. Three days later Bond had found a pair of handcuffs in the pocket of his suit jacket after a particularly pleasant night in Q’s flat, accompanied by a note saying: _Bring them when you come back_. That had been the first – but by no means the last – time Bond had driven home with a raging hard-on, courtesy of his Quartermaster. About a week after that, Q had taken a newly-bought paddle to Bond’s backside for the first time and spanked him in the same expertly calculated way he used to analyse the numbers on his computer with. Bond had gone off like a rocket about twelve hits in. Q had persevered to the fifteenth by sheer willpower.

Since then their games had only become more intricate, and Q had developed a habit of surprising him with new scenarios. He was obviously enjoying this just as much as Bond was, and Bond fancied himself one of the luckier people on this planet for having found a partner that just happened to have a natural knack for dominance.

“Colour?” Q’s voice demanded. His fur-gloved hand had trailed down Bond’s side, over his abdomen, past his hard, aching cock, and started stroking his upper thigh in small, circling movements.

“Green,” Bond replied hoarsely.

The glove disappeared, and an instant later a sharp, stinging sensation shot through the muscle at the inside of Bond’s thigh. The slapping sound that accompanied it told him that Q had just hit him with some sort of small strap – a riding crop, probably, balanced perfectly by Q’s strong, slender hand, stark black leather against his pale skin.

A groan left Bond’s mouth at the thought, and his cock jerked violently against his stomach. Q hit him again, on the other thigh this time, a little closer to his crotch.

“You’re leaking.” His voice was soft and coarse like velvet, and the quiet observation nearly took Bond over the edge just by itself.

More hits, in quick succession now, nearing his crotch, wringing more low noises from Bond’s throat.

Halt.

“What do you think is going to happen when I arrive…” The edge of the riding crop gently touched Bond’s length, making him shiver. “…there. Is it going to hurt when I do? Or is it going to make you come? Maybe both?” The crop trailed lower, to his perineum, caressing it. “I think both, don’t you?”

  
The picture came sudden, unexpected, blinding Bond like a camera flash in perfect Technicolor. A swinging rope, thickly tied. Beads of sweat on a marred face. Laughter. Pain. Other pictures trailed on its heels, fragmented, distorted, moving fast, flooding in through a door that hadn’t been opened in a while: A woman, bound and gagged, in the middle of the street, still wearing her evening dress. Gunshots. A garden. Peace, quiet, green (her dress), blue (her eyes). _You can have me anywhere. Here, there, anywhere you like._ Venice, red. Running. Water. Water everywhere. Metal bars, closed, locked, guilt guilt guilt, her eyes, blue. Hair wafting, skin pale. Lifeless. Red. Red, red, red, red red red redredredred

“Red. _Red_!”

The blindfold was ripped off his face in an instant and the walls of his living room came back into view, blurred, streaked, strangely out of balance. His arms were free all of a sudden, and somebody was kneeling next to him. _Q_ , Bond remembered, a questioning, careful hand on Bond’s shoulder bringing him back to reality piece by piece until he could breathe again.

“Shhh. Shhh.”

Bond only realised that tears were the cause for the blur in his vision, when a thumb softly took wetness off his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Q repeated it like a mantra, sing-songing the words until they reached Bond’s overladen brain. It took him a while to really understand what they meant.

“No,” he said, when he did, his voice splintered like broken glass. “Don’t apologise.”

Q got up from his kneeling position, slowly, like he was scared to spook Bond, then stepped around him, until he was standing right in between his spread thighs. His eyes shimmered dark green in the sparse light from the lamp in the corner, his black hair was a mess, as usual, his body thin and edged. He was just as naked as Bond, worry and remorse pervading his expression.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, fingers almost too gentle at Bond’s cheek.

Bond swallowed.

Q would have to know sooner or later. This thing between them had turned frighteningly serious a while ago, and Q had already seen and heard a whole lot of stuff that Bond had kept hidden from everybody else. Why not tell him this one, too. Besides, if Bond didn’t talk to him, he’d read it in the files sooner or later; and since Q was hardly stupid, it wouldn’t be particularly difficult for him to put two and two together.

“Come closer,” Bond said into the silence, and Q frowned the tiniest bit.

“I’m close.”

“Closer.” He pulled his knees in, and Q understood, sat down in his lap, legs stretched to either side of the chair. It could have been an obscene position, would have been under any other circumstances. Right now, though, all Bond focused on was how warm Q’s thighs were against his skin, how regular his breath entered and left his mouth, how resilient his blood pulsed in his carotids. How alive he was.

“Don’t rush. When you’re ready,” Q said, and Bond put his hands on Q’s back, felt the delicate bone structure of his shoulder blades beneath his fingertips, more warmth through his skin. If he was going to speak about death – not the usual, clean, professional kind; the messy, horrifying, meaningless kind – he wanted to attach himself to life while he did it. Q’s arms had instinctually gone around Bond’s neck, his hands cradled Bond’s head and his fingers carded languidly through Bond’s bristly, blond hair.

“My first job as a double-O was a big, bloody mess,” Bond began. “There was a terrorist bank involved. And a terrorist banker, too. Le Chiffre. Pretentious name for a pretentious man. By far not as clever as he thought himself to be. He needed somebody else’s money back, money he’d lost due to MI6 intervention. We played poker for that money, in Montenegro, Le Chiffre and I. A woman from the British treasury tagged along for supervision.” He paused, and Q’s hands at the back of his head stopped their caressing for a moment or two.

“Vesper Lynd.” Her name sounded like a curse to Bond’s ears, and he realised that he hadn’t said it out loud in well over three years for good reason.

“Vesper,” Q reiterated. “What a beautiful name.”

Bond ignored the remark, set on continuing his story without having to think about it too much. “We won the game, with a little help. They abducted her, put her on the street right in my way. My car flipped, they dragged me out. Woke up in a basement. Le Chiffre was nervous, obviously. His life was on the line. Tied me to a chair, whipped my balls with a rope to get the password for the bank account out of me.”

There was clear, honest shock in Q’s eyes now. “I didn’t-“

“- know.” Bond’s hands shifted on the Quartermaster’s back, pulled him in closer, skin on skin, a reassurance to both of them. “You couldn’t. Somebody came in, stopped the banker with a bullet to his head. Saved my balls, quite literally. The woman and I were both set free, but I should have known that something was up when the people who saved us didn’t demand the same information Le Chiffre had wanted. Turns out, she had double-crossed us.”

“What happened?”

“She tried to deliver the money in Venice, but it never arrived at its destination.”

“You killed her?”

“No. I didn't. But she died.”

Q nodded thoughtfully. “You loved her.”

It wasn’t a question, and Bond didn’t give an answer.

Next, Q’s lips were on his. There was no apology in the kiss, yet a deep understanding; and Bond responded after a while, opened his mouth and let him in.

Q pulled away after a few seconds. “All that aside, you still like me hitting you. How come?” he asked.

Bond’s hand wandered over his side, down the steep ledges of his ribs, and he felt something close to a smile form on his lips. “I’m a killer. Not a psychologist. Ask me an easier question.”

“Okay. Do you want us to keep doing this? The tying-up, blindfolding, slapping type of stuff?” The Quartermaster’s voice had only a hint of irony to it.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“So what now, then?”

Q’s eyebrows rose. “Kiss me again and we’ll find out.”

_We._

Bond didn’t need to be told twice.

**Author's Note:**

> For any connoisseurs of the old movies out there: Yes, the mink glove was absolutely intended as a reference to Thunderball.


End file.
